Sherlock Holmes and The Woman
by Caution Not Microwavable
Summary: Professor Moriarty seems to have underestimated Irene's abilities, that's unfortunate. My version of A Game of Shadows. Rated T just to be safe. ON HIATUS UNTIL MY COMPUTER STARTS WORKING. :(
1. Disavowed

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything here besides the storyline, which includes anything that did not happen in the movie. Any characters mentioned that I have not created myself do not belong to me.**

**Chapter One**

**Disavowed**

**Time: Present (12:15)**

Must he_ always_ interfere? That's a ridiculous question; it's his job to interfere. It seems he'll be eating alone tonight.

Due to Sherlock's blatant obstructions of my plans, the professor would think me invaluable. Of course, I'd failed him. I looked around the almost empty restaurant and saw The Professor's minions looking back at me. Their faces stuck in a cold sneer, only I could see how scared they were.

Whether or not they agreed with The Professor was irrelevant. Everyone who worked for him was there because they owed him a debt, and the fear of going against him outweighed everything else. His eyes are everywhere and there isn't an escape. Once you're in, you can't get out. As I sit here, I can't help but think that this is completely, entirely, _**his**_ fault. As always, he has to interfere with not only my plans, but more importantly, the plans I've been assigned.

But please, don't think me foolish. Once I had failed my mission, I knew The Professor would think me invaluable, and I knew attempting to change his mind would never work. It has never worked and never will work for anybody. So I've planned accordingly.

I smiled as a scared looking waiter arrived to serve the goons. As I expected, a separate waiter served me my "tea". I take a large sip, but I don't swallow. It smells like almonds. Cyanide. I half-listen to Moriarty speak, and instead watch his goons. I almost pity them. At this point in the game, any of us could be getting played, and you won't know it until you've made your last move. Except for me. I'm definitely the one getting played right now.

Normally, my plans rely less on chance and more on guns and knives. I definitely prefer it that way. Perhaps my waiter put in too much, and the effects will begin sooner than anticipated. Perhaps my waiter didn't put in enough, and the effects will start too late. Perhaps, I was out-bid, and my waiter didn't put in any at all. But there was no use worrying about it now, there wasn't anything I could do except wait.

"I no longer require your services."

He must think me very stupid, I think to myself as I stand. His arrogance is his undoing. Of course he would never have dreamed a woman could have so easily outsmarted him. I've poisoned enough people in my life to know what it looks like. It's time to put my acting skills to the test.

I stand, doing my best to appear weak and fragile. As I walk towards the exit, I begin to convulse. I take my handkerchief up to my lips, and spit out the poisoned tea. It is red, with just the right shade of brown. I lean on a table and risk a glance at Moriarty's servile followers. They are disgusted, and keep glancing my way, and quickly looking away. Moriarty is not looking at me, the prime example of tranquility. It seems I am doing an adequate job of faking my death.

I fall to the floor, shaking and spluttering like a fish out of water. Then I still. With my ear that is pressed to the floor, I sense the thumping of one heavy-set man walking towards me, and then a lighter one at a quicker pace. I slow my breathing as I am picked up. I smile, inwardly of course, as I feel the smaller of the two men sweating but shaking only slightly, and the larger starting to sweat. It seems my waiter followed my instructions perfectly. As the men carry me out the back door of the restaurant, their condition worsens. Their effort to conceal it is admirable; they make it much farther than most, likely out of the fear of failure. I almost pity them. Fear is something I know better than like to let on.

Just as they lift me into a carriage, the two men start to shake, just as I did. This, however, will not kill them. It simply knocks them out for a few hours. It's something I've concocted from some of Dr. Watson's medical supplies I've "borrowed".

I stood and fixed my hair. Then I bent down near the two men. They were absolutely delusional; to them, it was not the least bit suspicious that a dead woman was stealing their wallets. I kissed each of them on their sweaty cheeks, and exited the alleyway. I need to find a place to lay low for a while.

**Time: One Hour Ago**

Being the ex-wife of a politician meant you knew one or two things about certain people, and that information would usually get you behind otherwise closed doors. I make my way to the head Chef, remind him of a certain woman down in Southampton who is simply _dying_ to see him and his beautiful wife, and just like that, I have full access to the kitchen.

I seriously doubt I can match whatever offer the professor has put up, and I'm sure one of his own goons will be serving me anyways. There's also no doubting he would smell it in his own tea, so I opt to bribe one of the other waiters to serve each of Moriarty's goons my own poison.

Despite Sherlock's belief, I am not trying to kill him when I poison him. I am simply getting him out of the way for a few hours to do whatever it is I need to do. If that involves leaving him handcuffed to a hotel bed in the nude, so be it. It's his own fault for interfering, and I think he knows that. That's exactly what I'm going to do to Moriarty's goons. Not the hotel room part, of course. I just hope Watson doesn't start locking up his medicine cabinet. It's so much more convenient than going to an actual hospital to steal, and there's better company.

I make my way into the kitchen, and wait for a waiter to enter. I get many peculiar looks from the crew. They aren't accustomed to visitors in the kitchen, so I stand to the side and blend in with the scenery. It takes about five minutes, but a waiter does come in. He's small, fidgety, and doesn't look like the kind of person who could pull off what I need. Time isn't on my side, and I wouldn't count on my luck, so he's better than nothing.

"Excuse me, Sir? Would you mind helping me with something?" I ask with a flirtatious edge to my voice. I flash a bright smile, bat my eye-lashes, and the poor boy is done for. He only nods; gaping at me with wide eyes. "Would you mind?" I gesture towards the hall, away from prying eyes and nosy ears.

"Of course, miss…?"

"Wilson. Nellie Wilson." My personal favorite, of my many aliases.

"Right this way, Miss Wilson."

We walk down a hall, towards a door that obviously opens to a pantry, by the size of it.

"What is it you need help with, Madam?" A smile spreading across his face, but unfortunately for him, my coy attitude is long gone. Grabbing him by his shirt, I kick open the pantry door, and push him against a wall. Some jars filled with spices fall from the shelf, and clatter to the floor. It creates quite the mess. I take the knife I always keep on my person, and trace the collar of his shirt, popping off buttons as I go. It has the desired effect; this man is absolutely terrified. My face is inches away from his, and I begin to speak in a harsh whisper.

"In a half hour, three men will order tea for four. They will be expecting a female guest, and will have reservations for four separate tables. Put a teaspoon each of this," I hold up a vial. "In their drinks, but only the two youngest of the group. Do not, and I repeat_, do not_," I jerk the knife upward towards his chin. He flinches. "Put this in the eldest man's drink."

When he speaks, his voice drips of incredulity and disbelief. "And why the bloody hell would I do this?" I smile sweetly.

"Because I'll kill you if you don't. I couldn't have you telling anyone about our little discussion, could I?" I trace his jawline with the tip of my blade. "Do we understand each other? Because I know exactly where to find you if there is any…confusion."

"Yes ma'am."

"Good." I give him a sly smile and hand him the vile and a small piece of paper. For good measure, I grab his wallet. "Insurance." I shrug innocently.

I back away, place a kiss on his cheek, leaving a red stain, and loosen his collar. I make sure he doesn't make any unanticipated detours on the way back to the kitchen, and I make my way out of the restaurant.

**Time: 12:00**

"Any Refreshments, sir?" My nervous waiter asks.

"Black tea will be just fine." Instead of looking the waiter in the eye, he opts at staring at me instead. He's one of the most conspicuous spies have ever laid eyes on, but I'm not supposed to know he's here. I pretend not to notice him, as I need to portray a foolish, ignorant, and scared woman.

He sits down at exactly Twelve o'clock, for he is nothing if not precise. I watch as my waiter serves the goons sitting adjacent to me, and I smile as they greedily drink down their poison.

I hear him begin talking, and I answer robotically. He begins to hint at my inevitable death, and I implore that I may still be of some use to him. I mention Sherlock minimally, secretly hoping he's off the radar, but I doubt it. Sherlock has a rather unfortunate habit of overestimating his abilities. I try sound more and more desperate as we continue talking. Soon, all of the people in the room have exited, aside from Moriarty, his goons, and myself.

The words I've been anticipating roll off of his tongue with relative ease. He must have said it so many times before.

"I no longer require your services."


	2. Author Note

Author Note:

I'm really sorry that I haven't updated in a very long time. A lot of things have happened since my last update, and life has been a little hectic. I've gotten back surgery, my computer has gotten more than a few viruses, and I have a colossal amount of homework I need to catch up on. My entire plotline for this story is gone, along with a few chapters I wrote. I do plan on writing more in the next few days, as I have more free time.

I want to thank you for your wonderful reviews. Each of them puts the goofiest smile on my face, I can't even put into words how much it means to me that you like my writing. I plan on publishing my own stories after I graduate, and every review you guys type makes me feel a little bit warmer inside. You guys have a special place in my heart.

BregoBeauty, watercave, HarryGinnyDxC, ThePearBear, kioku7, chabitso.0, Timetrixter22, liine 95, NorthernLights25, , LadyFfion, CaptainMeghanSparrow, wolfhead, newworldwriter1, Lady Vicodin, , Zenappa, Bebbe5, every anonymous reviewer, and anyone who read my story; you mean the world to me. I will be updating very soon. I hope that you will continue reading my story.

With Love,

Ally


	3. Rain Check?

**Chapter Two**

**Rain Check?**

I look for Irene in the large crowd of people entering the grand, but I come up short. Her distinctive Parisian perfume is absent from the air. A couple walks past me, the woman gives me a pitiful look, and I turn the corners of my lips up at her. It must look pretty tragic, sitting alone at a table for two. I glance at my watch and realize Irene is more than fifteen minutes late. I decide to order without her. I grab the menu from the center of the table.

As I sip my red wine, a small, shaky waiter approaches my table. His face twitches and his beady eyes move back and forth anxiously. He carries a small tray with him, with an aluminum cover over a large plate. I haven't ordered anything yet. It is not a bomb; he is carrying the tray too carelessly; switching hands and bumping tables as he comes forth. It's either something harmless, or he has no idea. It is obviously meant for me though, but when he reaches my table I object anyway.

"I think you have the wrong table, Sir. I say, politely, but with a slight edge to my voice. I don't recall any waiter being such a nervous wreck delivering food. I get another look at the man, and I see that his shirt is different than the other waiters', and the shoulder of his waistcoat has traces of ginger that have been carelessly brushed off, smearing it into the fabric. A ghost of a woman's red lips are on his cheek. "I haven't decided." I look back down at my menu.

"Ms. Wilson said you would be expecting this." I look up from my menu at him.

"Nellie Wilson." I say, staring through him. He nods, then sets the tray down in the middle of the tabletop. I wait until he leaves to lift the cover off the plate. A small bowl filled to the top with olives sits in the middle, along with a folded note in The Woman's handwriting.

_Got caught up. So very sorry. Rain Check? I did send your favorite._

_-Nellie_

With a discreet smile, I fold the note and place it back where it was on the plate. I fix the napkin tucked in my shirt and proceed to eat my meal.

As I step out the doors of The Grand, olive in hand, and heavy droplets of rain immediately soak my hair. I take out my umbrella and walk back to the flat. As soon as I unlock the door, the aroma of The Woman's perfume fills my nostrils. I step quietly up the stairs, which is utterly redundant considering how creaky they are. When I reach the door to my room, I see her leaning on the doorframe, hair perfectly curled and a mischievous smile gracing her beautiful features. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes, though. Weariness and a bit of fear are mingling somewhere in there.

At a closer inspection, her dress has a small stain that resembles red sauce, and her skirt is ruffled on one side, with tiny pieces of gravel or loose cement caught in the cobalt blue fabric. Her cheeks are flushed from rushing over. She notices my gaze and smirks at me.

"Hello Sherlock," She says, sauntering over to me, her American accent ringing in my ears. "I do hope you enjoyed the olives, those are hard to get." Her fingers daintily trace the collar of my jacket, slipping it off my shoulders.

"Why are you here, Irene?" I ask, a little curiously. There is a reason to everything she does. I'm not sure why she showed up at the here, and not at the grand. She must be hiding, but from who? She walks further behind me and I turn to her. She takes off her hat, chocolate brown, curly tendrils of her hair fall out to her shoulders.

"You were right." She sighs, draping the coat on the arm of the tattered couch, then she sits down beside it.

"Of course I was. I'm never wrong." She smiles at this.

"We both know that's not true." Her face goes from light to dark, a fearful expression set in her eyes. "I need to get out of London. Out of the country, actually." She says.

"Who are you running from, Irene?" She stands from the sofa and walks around the room, facing the opposite direction. She studies the violin leaning on the mantelpiece, plucking each string, one by one.

"That isn't important, at least not now. If I get out of England undetected." She says. Her movements are stiff, every step is careful and precise, where her movements are always so fluid and elegant. Her fingers tremble with what I assume to be anxiety. Whoever she is running from, must be dangerous. Irene likes to play with criminals and delinquents like puppets, bending them to her will, just for the excitement, the sake of the game. I've never known her to run from anything, except husbands, of course. For her, getting caught and escaping was half the fun.

"I need your help, Sherlock." she states, pacing over to where I am. A portrait on my side table catches her cerulean blue eyes. The last time she was here, I'd thrust it face down on the tabletop. She gives me a lopsided smirk and stands it up. I am acutely aware of how close her body is to mine, but I don't feel very inclined to move. She tilts her head closer to mine.

"I need to be out of London by Thursday." She whispers, her lips treacherously close to my ear. I can feel her hot breath on my neck, which, regrettably, causes my voice to stumble, which I know she enjoys. She smirks against the skin on my throat. I pull away and walk past her, picking up my pipe from inside one of my slippers.

"In over your head yet, I Irene?" I muse, she doesn't seem to find it very amusing.

"Will you help me?" She states, her eyes silently pleading for my assistance. I nod, and she gives me a warm smile.

"We'll take the train to Liverpool tomorrow." I say, letting a puff of smoke from my pipe. She gives me an embrace, and this time I don't pull away.

**Sorry about the long wait again, I've been extremely busy. I hope you liked it. This chapter was shorter than I wanted it to be. R&R? **


	4. Happiness is a Warm Gun

**Oops, I did it again. I don't really know what to say, I've been really busy, and I'm sorry. I hope you guys are having a really good break so far. This chapter has some pretty gory stuff right at the beginning, so ye be warned. It's not that bad, but if you don't like that sort of thing, there will be a mark lower on the page where you can start reading, if you so choose.**

**Chapter Three**

**Happiness is a Warm Gun**

Small pieces of glass crunch between the soles of my boots and the cold, hard floor. I watch as Dredger picks up a few shards and drives them into the mans neck, causing red to soak through the crudely placed bandages. I almost cringe; I prefer not to get blood on my hands, at least only figuratively, I think with a smile. Dredger doesn't seem to mind. His legs buckle around the legs of the chair, letting out a garbled howl, blood brimming over his lips and dripping onto his silk blouse, spreading over his torso. His words come out in short, quick bursts that are difficult to decipher.

"I..-telled- you-everythin..." He manages to get out. Dredger picks up his bat from the corner of the boathouse, hoping to get out answers with another technique. I stop him with my hand, the man is useless.

"He is telling the truth." I say, in a low voice, my hat covering my eyes from the man across from me, his limbs tied to the wooden stool and eyes barely open, but focused on me. Dredger smirks.

"But he has told us nothing." He says, with glinting eyes. He pushes past me, wrapped up in the moment. I shove him backward, with a little more force this time.

"Do you recall the last time you disobeyed my orders?" I ask, my index finger tracing the contours of his scar. He flinches. "There is some gasoline outside, if you wish to beat the poor man some more, shall I retrieve it?" I say, my lips inches from his face. His demeanor quickly goes from lively to fearful. I could end him at any moment. "He has told us a name."

"Yes, Sir." He is a few feet taller than me, and much larger in stature, but his eyes are cast downward to the creaky wooden floors.

"Good." I say, more to myself than him. I walk past him, and towards the man bound to the bar stool. I lean down, but not on my knees. The waiter leans back s far as one could in a stool without toppling over. He gargles with his own blood, struggling to take in oxygen. I check for his wallet, but there is nothing there. The man goes silent, and only the water can be heard from outside the small shack. I check his pulse. He is gone.

**_ -__Start-_ **"A letter." I mumble, with a small smile on my face. "You know what to do." With a gloved hand, I press a gun into Dredger's. "I expect you to finish him off. Do not get carried away, we cannot leave any more evidence than what we already have. This message is for them, and no one else." Dredger nods at me, a grin on his face. I exit the boathouse, throwing my gloves into the blue abyss.

* * *

><p>When I open my eyes, I am laying on Sherlock's bed. I slip off the covers, and out of the bed as quietly as possible. I look around the flat for him, and have a bit of trouble finding him over the jungle that is his apartment. I soon locate him, slumped over his desk, head leaning on the cover of a large book, entitled <em>Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos, <em>I observe, from the binding. He fell asleep scribbling notes on a scroll of parchment. I make my way over to the side table, where he set down the file on my last visit. I pick it up, and read through the new expansions. I subconsciously twist my newly lifted earrings as I read the latest file on myself.

"Having fun there, darling?" Sherlock says, a dull look on his face. The remnants of sleep glaze over his eyes, which makes him look as though he'd been smoking again. His left cheek has the words 'upon' and 'various' imprinted unto it. I smile and wipe it out with my thumb.

"We'd better make our way to King's Cross now, if we intend to make the eight-fifteen." I say, walking past him and picking up my bag.

"We don't." He says, now fully awake. He turns in his chair, legs on either side of the back. "I can't have you going out looking like that." He gestures to me with his pipe. "No doubt Moriarty has already _not_ discovered your dead body, and will have his men out on a search." He gets up from his chair, and slips his jacket on.

"I assume you have a plan." I say, more of a question as to what it is.

"Always. You'll need new clothes, at least enough to get out of the country, and a few changes in case we get spotted along the way." He picks up his pipe from his desk, and puts on his hat. "Watson will be by shortly, and he would be very pleased if you returned those viles of his." He quips offhandedly, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

><p>"Why would he call so early in the morning, John?" Mary asked as she buttoned up my coat.<p>

"I'm not sure, but knowing him it's not extremely important. He's probably forgot that he's called for me already." Mary gives me a lazy smile, and tilts my head up as she fastens the last buttons.

"Except for the few times where it's been very important." She says. "You haven't gone around in a while. And he can't have much company."

"He doesn't like company." I tuck the scarf Mary made me into my coat.

"Everyone likes company, John. He's your best man." She places her hands on my shoulders, gives me a light peck on the cheek, and opens the door. "If at all possible, be back by ten. Tonight." I smile, give her a kiss, and make my way over to Baker Street.

I knock on the front door three times, my breath making a small bit of fog in the cold air. Mrs. Hudson answers the door, mumbling to herself about a "barmy git". When she sees me, her face lights up.

"Oh, hello Dr. Watson. Please tell me you've come to take Mr. Holmes out."

"Actually, he called me over." I say, stepping inside.

"That's odd." She closes the door. "He just ran out." I start to take my jacket off myself, but Mrs. Hudson interferes. "Oh, let me dear. Come, have a cup of tea." We sit down at the kitchen table in Mrs. Hudson's rooms.

"The darnedest thing happened the other day..." Mrs. Hudson starts, a small smile gracing her features.

"Oh?" I ask, sipping my tea.

She leans in over the table, her eyes bright. "Sherlock brought a woman home." She whispers excitedly. I nearly choke on my tea.

"A woman?" There's only one woman Sherlock has ever been remotely interested in.

"Is the woman here yet?" Her eyebrows furrow.

"You know, I didn't see her leave with him." I stand up from my chair, taking one last sip from my teacup.

"I'll be upstairs, Mrs. Hudson. It was wonderful to see you." She waves her hand while taking a bite of her biscuit.

"Oh you too, dearie."

* * *

><p><strong>I hope all of you guys had great Christmases, or at least better than mine. I have a horrible cold right now. Hope you liked this chapter, R&amp;R?<strong>


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